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No one on Icarus Base ever sees him eat. That didn’t mean he didn’t.
Becker knows he does. He’s the one who organises his meals, after all. Rush just doesn’t like company. That’s why he has Becker package up his meals. He tries to eat; goes to his quarters with the intention of eating. More often than not, though, his mind interprets the privacy, the closed door and the silence, as an invitation to think about things he shouldn’t. That he can’t think about; like where he’d be without the Ninth Chevron or whether he’d still feel so terrible if he’d stayed behind in that hospital to clutch a pale hand to his lips, and be forever at a loss for words.
No one ever sees him tip his untouched meals into the bin.
He moves through spaces absently, never lingering, never slowing down, never really knowing where he's going. All he sees is numbers. All he feels is tired. Nauseous. Hot. Cold. Exhausted. Sick. Exhausted. Cold. Hot. Nauseous. Tired.
God-awfully-tired.
He thinks this is punishment. Either, divine karma - not that he believes in that kind of thing - or an unconscious desire to be punished. It works. It hurts. It’s driving him insane.
No one on Destiny ever sees him eat.
Whether or not people care, they call him out on it. He wishes they’d just leave him alone. He tries to eat. It’s not like he doesn’t want to. But every, single, time he takes a mouthful the nausea comes like a crashing wave. By now he knows the nausea is an inevitable monster. It denies him food. Denies him peace. Strikes when he least expects it. Sometimes he manages to eat - but more often than not it comes back up. It doesn’t matter what he eats; it all tastes like mud, stuck on his tongue, between his teeth, and when it’s not mud it’s flesh and tastes like iron, tastes like acid.
“When was the last time you ate?”
It’s Young who asks this time.
“Yesterday.”
It’s not exactly a lie, although it had been 1am when he’d finally eaten his lunch from the day before. It had come back up four cripplingly nauseous hours later.
“Right,” Young says, crossing his arms and adopting a commanding stance - one that had always prompted a raised eyebrow from Rush. “You must know how bad this is for your health.”
“I’m not an idiot!” he snaps back.
Young is giving him an exasperated look.
“Fine,” he growls, and just because he agrees doesn’t mean he’s going to give Young the satisfaction of seeing him yield to his command happily. “You wanted a meeting? We’ll have it right now, while I eat.”
It’s not a question, and Rush feels like any other time Young might have protested but the Colonel looks like he’s just achieved some great feat. He looks surprised, and Rush has to roll his eyes. He isn’t sure if the shock is because he agreed or because he invited him to come along. It’s not like he’s inviting him because he enjoys his company. It’s not like they’re friends. It’s not like this is anything but a debrief, and he knows Young is aware that this isn’t an offer of friendship.
He smiles, though.
Rush hates that smile.
Young talks quickly and efficiently and professionally, and it’s a welcome change. It all goes well until he’s distracted by how quickly Rush is eating, “Slow down.”
Rush glares. So much for staying on topic.
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
He shakes his head. He hasn’t felt the nausea yet, and so he has no intention of slowing down. He doesn’t want to give his body time to feel nauseous. The inevitable monster will come but maybe he can beat it this time. “Keep talking,” he replies.
Young does, and Rush makes comments when he needs to and before he knows it he’s finished his meal and Young’s finished talking and they go their seperate ways. They’d even managed to come up with a somewhat decent compromise.
By the time he’s back at his console there’s an acidic taste in his mouth, and every movement feels like he’s wading through water. He’s boiling up, sweating nausea and maybe, maybe if he can just cool himself down- He tells his team he’s off to work alone, and heads for the showers. The steam-shower doesn’t help but at least the sick that ends up on his feet washes away. He grits his teeth and breathes through his nose, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
He’s having a picnic with Gloria, and they’re laughing. Her hair is a golden halo in the light of the setting sun. He’s about to tell her how beautiful she is when he feels the nausea catch in his throat...
he twists
and retches
catches petals as they fall from his lips
they keep coming
landing on the grass
he sticks a hand in his mouth
dislodges them from his teeth
pulls an entire rose out from between his lips
Gloria’s hand is on his shoulder
he looks back at her
he can’t speak - his mouth is full of roses
her mouth is moving - she’s speaking
there’s no sound - he can’t hear a thing
He wakes with tears on his cheeks, and all that’s left to vomit up is acid. He laughs. Gloria’s name is perched on his lips but he doesn’t speak it. Destiny hums, and reverberates around him. He cries and sits, shaking, holding himself together as best he can until morning comes.
He works in his corridor the next day. Chloe brings him lunch - pureed fruit - but by the time Young comes looking for him, he still hasn’t touched the food.
Young sighs, when he sees the full bowl sitting on the floor. “I feel like I’m babysitting a child.”
Rush scoffs.
“I need you to eat, Rush. I don’t want to have to send you to TJ.”
“Neither do I,” Rush replies, obviously.
“Then eat.”
He stares, unseeing, at his equations. His hand is shaking; the one holding chalk, hovering indecisively over the makeshift board. He sighs, and his head’s a blur; his stomach is complaining and he has a headache that’s so sharp and loud it blurs his vision.
He knows this a new kind of low for him.
“Rush?”
“I can’t,” he admits, quietly. The only reason he relents is because he can’t stand the Colonel’s pestering any longer.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Young snaps.
Rush grits his teeth. Of course the great buffoon thinks he’s being obstructive for the sake of vanity. He throws the chalk to the floor - it breaks in two - and he spins on Young. “I can’t,” he snaps, "because I can’t keep anything down!”
Young’s expression softens into a disgustingly pitiful frown. “Oh,” he says intelligently.
Rush is breathing harshly through his nose and has to close his eyes against the swaying room.
“Nausea?”
He gives a slow, tired nod.
“What’d make it easier?”
He opens his eyes and settles Young with a derisive look, “Leaving me to eat when I can, for starters.”
Young’s frown deepens. “That’s…not going to work, Rush.”
“I realise that!” Rush growls, “But you can’t have me sitting in Lieutenant Johansen’s infirmary taking up space, and being useless, while - ” Young is looking thoughtful as if considering… “No, no, no!” Rush adds, “You can’t have me walking around with a bloody IV drip attached to me, either!”
Young gives a nod, seeming to get that there’s no immediate solution in sight, “Okay.”
Rush frowns, “Okay?”
“Okay,” Young repeats, “We’ll work something else out.” Then he looks at the bowl that’s still sitting on the floor, untouched, “Are you going to eat that?”
Rush considers lying but what's the point? He shakes his head instead.
Young stoops to pick it up, “I’ll give it to someone who needs it.”
“Thanks,” Rush finds himself saying, and winces when his voice sounds relieved and exhausted.
The Colonel shoots him an understanding look; one Rush hasn’t ever seen aimed at him. Then Young ruins the moment with a, “This isn’t over.”
He sighs.
He finds himself in the infirmary. TJ has him attached to an IV. His mouth feels dry, and his skin feels itchy, and there is music playing through someone’s speakers. It’s classical, and he thinks he should know its name but he can’t for the life of him place it. Any other time it might have calmed his nerves but he's been on the edge of nausea for what feels like days, and no matter what he does he can't keep anything down. He feels another retch building in his throat and grabs for the bucket TJ’s left for him. He vomits harshly, and his throat feels raw. He winces, and when he looks up, wiping a hand across his mouth he finds Young is watching from the corner of the room. HHe hadn’t noticed him standing there. He’s about to ask what he wants when another retch wracks his body…
he’s doubles over
wet coughs
there’s blood
he can’t breathe
there’s something caught
he hooks a finger round the thread and pulls
splutters
unravels
feels like he’s dying
feels like he’s unraveling
clumps of meat come up
splat
he’s choking
he’s coughing up his own lungs
splat
he’s choking
Young’s smiling
he’s dying
Young’s laughing
he’s dead.
He wakes with a jolt and feels a scream dying on his lips. His clothes are soaked through with stinking sweat so he clambers out of bed, and sheds each layer, throwing them to the floor. He sits, naked, on the ground with his back against the wall, and takes deep shuddering breath after deep shuddering breath. He’s shivering but his skin is on fire. He tries to keep himself from being sick.
“It was just a dream,” Rush whispers to no one; his voice sounds broken and raw.
The only reply he gets is Destiny’s mechanical hum. If he closes his eyes it almost sounds like breathing.
The next day he finds Young waiting for him in his maths corridor. It’s a little disconcerting that he’s become this predictable. Young is holding a mug and bowl, and there’s another set on the floor by the wall.
“What’s this?” Rush asks, as Young hands it to him.
The Colonel shrugs, like this is normal behaviour, “It’s breakfast.”
A moment later Rush finds himself sitting on the floor opposite the Colonel, with a bowl in his lap, staring at the mug Young brought him. The liquid looks orange and smells sweet.
“It’s not poisoned,” Young laughs.
Rush grits his teeth, and tries not to let his discomfort show.
“It’s for the nausea,” Young adds. “The last of our batch from Earth.”
Rush takes a hesitant sip, and is surprised to find it tastes not altogether terrible.
“Lieutenant Johansen’s almost finished perfecting her own Destiny version of anti-nausea tea so we can try that afterwards, too.”
Rush doesn’t miss the use of 'we’, and frowns, wondering if Young realises the slip and the implications it conjures.
Young interprets his frown as disapproval. “Don’t worry,” he continues, “I took the fall for you.”
Rush glances at him, and Young is smiling. He’s sure the Colonel realises the implications of that comment, at least, if not also that of the last one. Rush suspects he's only helping him in an attempt to gain his trust; it’s almost like he’s saying “see, if you let me, I can have your back.”
“How’re you sleeping?”
“Fine.”
“Rush.”
He sighs, “Two hours a night if I’m lucky.”
“But you’re trying to sleep?”
“I’m not an idiot!” Rush snaps.
Young smiles, “Yeah, I know."
Rush wishes he still disliked that smile.
He eats his food slowly, and sips at the anti-nausea drink. He wonders what kind of plan Young is concocting to remedy his lack of sleep. He watches the Colonel as he frowns and squints, lost in thought.
For a moment he sees Butch Cassidy in Young’s place, and looks away to dig his fingers into his eyes.
He sees stars.
Young catches him when he almost collapses. There’s no one around to see but it’s no less embarrassing.
“Get off!” he exclaims and the Colonel steps back as soon as he sees that Rush can stand on his own.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t know why Young’s apologising.
“Come on, Rush. Time for bed.”
He wants to growl an irritated response but he’s just too bloody tired. He wants to sleep but he knows he won’t. Young is standing there, watching him with an expectant look on his face.
He’s too exhausted to argue, “Fine.”
Young follows him all the way to his quarters. Then doesn’t leave.
“What do you want now?”
Young watches him as he pulls off his shoes and removes his t-shirt.
“What’s keeping you from sleeping?” the Colonel asks.
Rush gives him a tired look, and doesn’t know how to explain. He doesn’t want to explain.
“Come on, Rush. You managed to keep your food down after the drink, right?”
Rush doesn’t answer, but Young’s right. He did. He’d never been so bloody grateful to have a full stomach.
“Speak to me,” the Colonel urges.
Rush glances up and shrugs, “What makes it hard for you to sleep?”
Young frowns for a moment before understanding what he means. “Nightmares.”
Rush waves a hand, as if to say ’there’s your answer’.
Young looks thoughtful, before he puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I could…wake you up if you start having a nightmare. I’m a light sleeper.”
Rush grimaces, “You can’t sleep in here.”
“We could get someone else to-”
“No.”
“Then, at least, for tonight?”
He’s so bloody exhausted and he suspects he’s going to regret it in the morning…but he dreads tomorrow less than he dreads the nightmares, and so he gives an exasperated sigh and nods. Young smiles, kicks off his own shoes, and shrugs out of his jacket. Rush watches as he begins to wrap his jacket up into a ball and set it on the ground.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
Young looks up, “I’ve slept in worse places.”
Rush rolls his eyes, “Your leg is going to be killing you tomorrow. Just get in the bloody bed.”
“That won’t keep you up?”
“No,” he says simply. He doesn’t tell Young that the extra heat and presence in the bed will probably do the exact opposite.
He knows the situation is ridiculous. Especially considering he’s letting a man; one whose tried to kill him several times, into his bed. Young settles down with a huff, and keeps his distance.
“You don’t snore do you?”
Young laughs, “Not for a while, but then again…”
He trails off but Rush knows what he was going to say; ‘Then again there’s been no one to tell me if I did.’
Rush turns his back on the man, and keeps to his side of the bed, and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t end up in an inappropriate position by morning. That only happens in books, he tells himself, before closing his eyes.
If anything the lack of awkwardness is what’s troubling him.
‘Troubling’ must have been an exaggeration because the next thing he knows he’s being jolted awake. He swears and sits upright. There’s a hand on his shoulder and he almost thinks it’s Gloria before he remembers. He takes a deep breath.
“Sorry,” Young says. “You were thrashing.”
Rush shakes his head, trying to catch his breath.
“Do you usually remember your nightmares?”
Rush nods, and runs a hand through his hair.
“Do you want to talk about…any of them?”
He shakes his head.
“Nah I wouldn’t, either,” Young’s hand is back on his shoulder and he finds himself relaxing under it. “Lay back down.”
He does, but not before seeing Young’s reassuring smile.
He’s beginning to really like that smile.
Young is gone when he wakes to his alarm. He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t regret the night. He tells himself it’s because it’s the first time he’s got a decent sleep since joining the Stargate program. He gets three times the amount of work done, than he usually does.
He thanks the stars for a restful night and a full stomach, instead of thanking Young.